Kit knocked on the side door just after seven, hoping Emily would accept a ride to the airfield so they could talk. But Nigel informed her Emily had already left. Kit hurried to the carriage house and started the motorcycle, hoping to catch up with her along the way to the airfield. She circled the motor pool twice then parked next to the ATA office, disappointed she hadn’t found her.
“I telephoned the motor pool. A driver is on the way,” Commander Griggs said from her open office door. Kit was only vaguely aware of her presence. She stood at the window, her eyes lost in space. “Lieutenant? Lieutenant Anderson?” Griggs said, but Kit was still in another world. Griggs strode across the room and stood behind her. “Lieutenant Anderson?”
“Yes, Commander,” Kit said, finally coming to her senses.
“I said a driver is on the way. We’re sending five pilots to the factory in Thriggle. Can you see to it, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, Commander.”
“Where is your mind this morning?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll take care of the pilots right away,” Kit said. She went to her desk and began rummaging through the drawer for the assignment sheet. It was on top of the desk in plain sight. Griggs picked it up and thrust it in front of Kit’s face then turned and strode into her office.
“Thriggle! Now there is one nasty factory,” Lovie said as she stood combing her hair in the broken piece of mirror taped to the wall. “Smells like burnt rubber.”
“It was a tire factory before they converted it to an airplane plant,” Patty said, jockeying for a sliver of the mirror.
“No wonder it smells then.” Lovie wrinkled her nose and stepped out of her way.
“What did you want a factory to smell like?” Red asked, taking a drag off Lovie’s cigarette burning in the ashtray.
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Anything but burnt rubber. How about chocolate?”
“Okay, ladies, enough chitchat. We’ve got flights today,” Kit said, finding her way back to the present. She made the assignments and gave last-minute instructions.
“Where will you be?” Lovie took the last drag on her cigarette then mashed it out. “Sipping French champagne and eating bonbons?” She giggled.
“Who is sipping champagne?” Commander Griggs said critically, coming out of her office with a bundle of papers for field command.
“Lieutenant Anderson, that’s who,” Lovie said gleefully, bumping Kit with her hip. “She’s got a faraway, dreamy look in her eyes. She’ll probably duck out as soon as we take off.”
“Very funny. I’m taking a bomber to Dublin,” Kit replied, ruffling Lovie’s hair playfully.
“Lieutenant, keep a watch out for the weather on your way back. Might run into some fog,” Griggs said, handing her a weather notice.
“The rest of you do the same,” Kit announced, reading it over. “Don’t take any chances. Set your planes down if you see fog. That includes you, Red. Don’t try to outrun it like you did last week.”
“Yes, Lieutenant.” Red rolled her eyes. “All right. Who’s the tattletale?”
“Never mind who told me. Just don’t do it again. You were lucky last time.”
Red gave Lovie a scowl and wagged a finger at her. Lovie shrugged and shook her head.
“It wasn’t me,” Lovie insisted.
Emily opened the door and stepped into the ready room, waiting for the end of the briefing.
“Okay, ladies, let’s get to work. Fly safe out there,” Kit said then looked over at Emily. “Hello,” she said, unable to hide her pleasure at seeing her. They shared an awkwardly long gaze, one that broke only when Red finally cleared her throat loudly.
“Miss Mills,” Kit said, diverting her eyes to the map. “You’re taking five pilots to the factory just outside Thriggle. Have you been there before?”
“No, but I’m sure I can find it,” Emily said, her eyes never leaving Kit. She came to the map, standing next to Kit to see the routing.
“Viv can help you. She’s been there several times.”
It’s easy to find, love,” Viv said.
“Watch out for the bridge at Atwood,” Lovie said. “I flew over it last week, and it was out.” She draped an arm over Emily’s shoulder. “Go by way of Thistle Downs, or you’ll get stuck.” She whispered into Emily’s ear, “Viv can’t tell left from right sometimes.”
“I heard that,” Viv grumbled.
“But, sweetheart, you can’t.” Lovie grinned and pinched her cheek.
“That was just one time,” Viv said. “Maybe two.”
The girls collected their gear and headed across the field, still joking and teasing each other. Kit’s discreet glances and yearning for a moment to visit with Emily were left at the ready room door. She knew duty came first. She was dying to know why Emily ran out of the cottage in tears, but she knew that would have to wait. More than once she had given her heart to a seemingly compassionate woman, only to find their rendezvous was nothing more than curiosity. If Emily had second thoughts, if she regretted what they had done, a few hasty words weren’t what Kit wanted. She gave Emily a last look and smile then headed to the runway.
Kit was last to take off. She banked the lumbering bomber west by northwest with hopes the trip would be uneventful and she would be back in Alderbrook by dinner. She didn’t want to worry about weather or cantankerous airplanes today. There was something else on her mind, and it was Emily’s sweet smile. Thankfully, the trip across Wales and the Irish Sea to Dublin was a quick one, partially because the strong winds pushed her that way, and partially because she was cruising at six hundred feet with the throttle wide open to cut her flying time to the bare minimum. The crew descended on the bomber as soon as she rolled to a stop. Within fifteen minutes she was strapped into a 1929 Gypsy Moth biplane for her trip home. It was versatile and maneuverable as a low-level reconnaissance aircraft, although it wasn’t as fast as the newer models. Because of the never-ending equipment shuffle, the front seat was packed with spare parts and covered with a tarp.
“Better get a wing in the air, Lieutenant,” the mechanic said. “Weather on the way.” He nodded back to the east, the direction she had just come. “And take care of those parts.” He patted the side of the fuselage.
Kit nodded and flipped the switch, waiting for him to spin the propeller and start the engine. She held the stick between her knees as the Moth began rolling down the runway. She pulled her leather flight cap down and positioned her goggles then pushed the throttle to full.
“Take me home, baby,” she said as she increased speed and nosed up into the blue skies. She circled the field and took up an easterly heading. She was halfway across the Irish Sea when she saw a gray haze forming along the horizon. That was fog, and she didn’t like the looks of it. Her only question was could she make it over land before it swallowed her and the slow-moving airplane.
She pointed the nose of the airplane southeast toward Port Oer and raced the oncoming weather across the water. It wasn’t the most direct route back to Alderbrook, but it was the nearest point of land on the coast of Wales. It didn’t take Kit long to realize she was losing the race. The likelihood of reaching the coast and the airstrip at Hasselford twenty miles inland before the fog completely obscured the ground was in serious doubt. She knew the throttle was wide open, but she pushed it anyway. Ten minutes was all she needed. Ten minutes to be over the rocky coast and then a soft landing in a farm field. She raised her altitude to give herself a few more feet—a few more moments to find a suitable landing spot. The first thin wisps of gray fog sailed by as the Moth passed over the coast. She was flying straight into thick soup. Finding an emergency landing place was the best she could hope for.
Kit throttled back and dropped down to take a look. The maneuverable biplane gave her an extra bit of confidence, knowing five hundred feet of pasture was enough for a safe landing. As fog grew thicker, she became more worried she wouldn’t find an open field. She remembered dozens of green pastures and smooth meadows the last time she over-flew western Wales, but all she could see were swampy fields and rows of trees. With no radio, she was on her own. She needed a place to set down, and now. Kit banked to the left and flew parallel to the fog bank.
“You aren’t a beautiful field, but you’ll have to do,” she mumbled, pitching around and lining up with a narrow pasture. “I hope there are no tractors down there.” She gritted her teeth and cut the engine. The front wheels skimmed the top of the trees as she floated in for a landing, bouncing over the rut-covered ground. The Moth rolled into the fog and stopped, the last turns of the propeller thrashing at the hedge row that surrounded the field. Kit leaned her head back and closed her eyes, saying a prayer of thanks for being on solid ground. She climbed out and slid down the wing then waded through the weeds to check the propeller. The thrashing sounded disastrous, but fortunately the blades looked okay. She wouldn’t know for sure if there was any damage until she turned the airplane around and started the engine for takeoff.
The fog thickened, obscuring everything but what she could touch. Like most English fog banks, Kit knew it would be as thick as butterscotch pudding for a few hours then drift out to sea. If she was lucky, it would move on, leaving her enough time to get back to Alderbrook before dark. For now, she could only sit and wait. She had no idea where she was, and in the thick fog, it was unlikely anyone saw her land.
Kit sat on the wing, waiting for the fog to lift. She thought about going in search of a friendly face to help turn the Moth around, but she didn’t want to get lost in the fog. It seemed like hours before she noticed the fog thinning. She hopped down and began pushing the tail around. She would need all the speed she could coax from the engine to lift the wheels over the row of trees at the far end of the field. She struggled to push the airplane around, something she had done a hundred times on smooth pavement. But a heavily loaded airplane over rough furrows was something else. She managed to move it only a few feet before the tail skid bogged down in the plowed ground. She grunted and put all her weight against it, but it was stuck. Her feet slipped out from under her, and she slid to the ground.
“Where are all the mechanics when you need them?” she shouted skyward as she sat in the dirt in disgust. She leaned back against the side of the fuselage to catch her breath. In the distance she could hear the growing sound of a motor. She scrambled to her feet and thrashed her way through the weeds and brush that bordered the field and onto the dirt road. Through the thinning fog, she could see an oncoming truck lumbering down the middle of the road toward her. She waved her arms frantically, hoping the driver would stop and lend a hand. Instead, the driver honked and roared past. The truck missed her by only inches and raised a thick cloud of dirt and dust. Bits of gravel pelted her as the vehicle sped by.
“Ouch.” She waved her arms and coughed at the choking dust. “Thank you very much, you son-of-a.” Kit spit and fanned the dirt away from her face. The truck was well down the road when she heard it skid to a stop. “I hope you had a flat,” she said as she brushed off her clothes.
The truck reappeared from the other direction, slowing as it approached.
“Were you needing something?” a woman asked as she leaned out the window warily.
“I didn’t need a dirt shower, that’s for sure,” Kit replied glibly.
“Sorry, but you were in the road, you know. You’re lucky I didn’t hit you.” The woman seemed confident she shared no responsibility for the near accident. “Perhaps you should keep to the side of the road next time.”
“I was in the middle of the road hoping you would stop, not run over me.”
“Why would I want to do that? I don’t know you. We’ve been warned to stay on the alert for German spies and downed pilots.”
“I am not a spy.”
“How do I know that?”
“I’m a pilot for our side.”
“And who would that be?” asked another woman as she leaned over the driver. “You can’t fool us. We know there are no women pilots in the RAF. And you don’t sound British.”
Before Kit could explain, she noticed the barrel of a shotgun inching its way out the driver’s window.
“Wait a minute,” she said, raising her hands over her head. “Don’t shoot. I can explain. I’m an American working for the ATA.”
“Who is the ATA?” the driver demanded, thrusting the barrel further out the window.
“The Air Transport Auxiliary. We deliver airplanes to the air bases. I had to make an emergency landing in that field because of the fog.” Kit pointed.
“I don’t see anything,” the passenger said, looking in that direction.
“On the other side of the hedge row,” Kit said, still holding her arms up.
“There’s no aerodrome out here,” the driver grumbled.
“I was on my way back from Ireland when I ran into fog. Can I put my arms down? My fingers are going numb,” Kit asked, resting her hands on the top of her head.
“You wouldn’t have a pistol under that jacket, would you?” the driver asked, raising the gun to her shoulder.
“No. I’ll unzip and show you.” Kit used two fingers to unzip her jacket and open it. “See. No pistol. Do you want to see my ID?”
“No. That could be false.”
“I do have a comb in my pocket. Do you want to see that?” Kit dipped her fingers into her breast pocket and pulled out a small black comb. “See? American.”
The two women whispered for a moment then climbed out of the truck, the driver still holding the shotgun on Kit. The driver was a tall woman in her fifties with short, curly gray hair. She had the weathered face of a woman who worked hard for a living, and from her tanned complexion, dirty trousers and faded jacket, Kit suspected she worked outdoors. The other woman was also in her fifties and wore a simple cotton dress and coat with two buttons missing. She had long brown hair held back on either side by barrettes. Neither woman wore makeup. The truck smelled of animal manure. They whispered again then squared their shoulders demandingly.
“Your knickers, we want to see them,” the passenger said.
“What?” Kit asked suspiciously.
“That’s right,” the driver added, waving the gun at her. “We want to see your knickers.”
“You want to see my underwear?” Kit laughed. “I don’t think so.”
“We heard German spies wear their own undergarments. We want to see the label on your knickers.” The two women stood together, looking brave and stoic at their request. Kit had the feeling they were harmless, but the driver also had a twelve-gauge shotgun aimed at her head, and for all Kit knew, she was a crack shot. They also might be the only people she would find to help turn the airplane around.
“You want me to take my clothes off so you can see my underwear?” Kit asked through a frown.
“Yes,” they said in unison.
“Okay. What the heck?” Kit took off her jacket and hung it over a nearby bush. She unzipped her flight suit and peeled it off her shoulders, letting it drop to her ankles. She raised the hem of her sweater and revealed her white underpants. “Here they are.”
“Where’s the label?” the driver demanded.
Kit shuffled her feet as she turned to the side then rolled down the hem to reveal a label.
“See. Made in the U.S.A.” she stated, holding the label out for them to see. “I bought them at Pulman’s Department Store in Kansas City.” The two women leaned in to see, keeping a discreet distance.
“Those are silk,” the passenger exclaimed.
“Yes, and Joe DiMaggio plays for the Yankees and the state flower of Kansas is a sunflower. Can I get dressed now?” Kit pulled her sweater down over her panties. She was cold and tired of being on display for these women’s pleasure.
“Where’s Kansas?” the driver asked.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Kit pulled up her flight suit in spite of the gun barrel. “It’s in the middle of the United States.”
“What’s the capital?” the passenger asked, still scrutinizing Kit’s every move.
“Would you know the difference?” she asked as she finished getting dressed.
“Florence asked you what’s the capital?” The driver slowly raised the shotgun to her shoulder and took aim.
Kit stopped her zipper halfway up and stared at the woman.
“Topeka.”
“I thought it was Little Rock,” Florence said, frowning at the other woman.
“Little Rock is the capital of Arkansas,” Kit corrected diplomatically.
“Oh, that’s right.” Florence smiled. “Kansas is Topeka. Volume eleven.”
“What is volume eleven?”
“Florence reads the Britannica. She’s on volume sixteen, letter P,” the driver said.
“The Encyclopedia Britannica?” Kit asked in amazement. She didn’t mean to sound surprised, but she wasn’t sure either of these women knew how to read at all, much less that they were educated.
“There isn’t much else to do on a pig farm,” Florence replied. “Our radio is broken, and it’s too far to go to town very often.”
“How far is town?”
“About thirty minutes that way,” the driver said, using the barrel of the gun to point.
“We were on our way home from market,” Florence said. “Sold twelve pigs.”
“That’s what I smell,” Kit joked, trying to be sociable so the gun-toting woman would lower her weapon.
“I told you it still smells, Edie,” Florence snapped, smacking the taller woman across the arm. “Next time you’ll listen to me.”
“I swept it out before we left town, I did.”
“You can’t get that stench out with a broom. You’ve got to use soap and water.” Florence scowled angrily. “Next time I’m going to walk home if you don’t clean it better. You promised I wouldn’t smell it.”
“We had a dozen pigs in the back. What do you expect?”
Florence stared darts at her, her hands on her hips defiantly. Edie was well over six-feet tall and a square-shouldered woman with a twelve-gauge shotgun in her hand, but she was completely intimidated by Florence’s demands and her angry glare.
“All right. I’ll wash it out next time,” Edie said, grumbling her displeasure.
“If she can smell it over there, I don’t know why you can’t smell it sitting right in front of it,” Florence continued.
“All right,” Edie shouted, glaring back at her. “I’ll wash it.”
“And quit waving that bloody shotgun around. You’re going to shoot yourself in the foot. She’s no German spy. You’ve been listening to too many tales ’round the pub.” Florence grabbed the end of the barrel and tilted the gun down. It was the first time since the truck roared by that Kit felt relieved.
“If she isn’t a spy, what’s she doing standing in the middle of the road?” Edie said.
“She told you, love. She’s a pilot of some sort or other on her way home from Ireland.”
“ATA ferry pilot,” Kit said. “And I honestly did make an emergency landing in the field just beyond these bushes. Do you want to have a look?”
“Yes, I would,” Florence said enthusiastically. “I’d love to see a real airplane up close. All we ever see are the ones roaring overhead. I’ve never seen a real RAF airplane before. Edie, go put that gun back in the truck, or you aren’t coming,” she ordered, tossing a decisive stare her way. Edie did as she was told. “I’m Florence Milford,” she said, offering her hand to Kit with a wide smile.
“I’m Kit Anderson, Lieutenant Kit Anderson.” Kit shook her hand, feeling the calluses on Florence’s palm.
“How do you do, Lieutenant Anderson? The one with the gun is Edie Milford.”
“Hello, Edie,” Kit said, offering to shake her hand as well. Edie had a firm grip, one that could have easily bruised Kit’s hand had she felt inclined.
“Hello,” she said.
Kit led the way through the bushes to where she had left the airplane.
“Edie, will you look at that!” Florence exclaimed as she stepped through the hedge row. “An airplane. Just like she said. A real airplane.” She circled it, running her hand along the wing and across the tail.
“It’s not a Spitfire,” Edie said gruffly. “The RAF uses Spitfires.”
“It’s a nineteen twenty-nine Gypsy Moth,” Kit said, pointing to the RAF insignia on the side. “We still use them for trainers and to deliver cargo.”
“Have you ever flown a Spitfire, Lieutenant?” Florence asked, stroking one of the smooth propeller blades.
“Yes, many times.”
“Just Spitfires?” Edie asked, looking at the engine.
“We fly lots of airplanes. Hurricanes, Lancasters, Wellingtons, Mustangs.”
“I remember now. I heard about ferry pilots. Women pilots are delivering airplanes fresh from the factories to our RAF boys,” Florence said.
“I remember you said the only women in Great Britain to have any silk were those pilots,” Edie said.
“Silk?” Kit asked.
“Your parachute, love,” Florence explained.
“Oh, right.”
“We women can’t get any silk to make knickers or slips,” she said.
“I can’t get any silk either,” Kit said. “It’s the military who has it all.”
“How many parachutes do you pilots need? Can’t you use them more than once?”
“Yes, but the paratroopers use them too. They use more than we do.”
“I’ve heard of women coming to blows over a pilot’s parachute. One poor chap landed in a street in London and didn’t have a scratch, not until the women in the neighborhood ran him over to get at his parachute.”
“You don’t need any silk, Florence,” Edie said.
“I didn’t say I did, now did I? I’m just saying, a little silk is nice every now and then, isn’t it, Lieutenant?” Florence looked over at Kit for agreement.
“I suppose so,” Kit said. She didn’t sew, so she had no idea what she would do with silk anyway.
“What kind of help did you need, Lieutenant?” Edie asked.
“I need to push the back around so I can take off once the fog lifts.” Kit pushed on the side of the airplane to demonstrate, but it didn’t move.
“Stand back, Florence,” Edie said, taking up a place next to Kit. Kit was hoping all three of them could work together to get the tail turned. She wasn’t sure one more woman pushing would make that much difference.
“There’s room for her on the other side of me,” Kit said.
“I’ll do it.” Edie braced her shoulder against the fuselage. “Florence, you tell us when we’ve got it lined up.” She began pushing before Kit was ready. Kit quickly added her muscle, but the airplane had already begun to move, plowing the rear skid through the soft dirt. Edie’s face reddened as she marched forward, swinging the airplane into line.
“Right there, love,” Florence said, waving her arms. Edie stopped pushing. Kit immediately felt the weight of the plane sink into the plowed ground.
“You’ll have to race your engine to get over those trees,” Edie said, pointing to the far end of the field just visible through the thinning fog.
“How did you do that?” Kit asked, amazed at her super-human strength.
“Do what? You said you wanted it pushed around, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Strong, isn’t she?” Florence said with a proud smile. “Strong isn’t the word for it.”
“Edie can lift a bale of hay and chuck it over a fence.”
“I don’t doubt it. Your sister is one strong woman,” Kit acknowledged.
“She isn’t my sister.”
“I’m sorry. I just assumed you were sisters.”
“No. We aren’t related.”
“Coincidence then?” Kit suggested.
“What? That we both have the same last name?” Edie asked defensively.
“Well, yes.” Kit felt she had said something wrong. “Two women named Milford would make you suspect you’re related somehow.”
“I’m going to tell her,” Florence said to Edie.
“It’s none of her business,” Edie said suspiciously.
“I don’t care. I’m going to tell her anyway.”
“Tell me what?” Kit asked.
“My last name is actually Vorice, Florence Vorice.”
“Then why Milford?”
“That’s what people do, isn’t it?” Florence said with a soft smile. “When they’re married.” She looked over at Edie lovingly.
“You and Edie?”
“That’s right. Florence and I,” Edie said, coming to stand beside her wife. She wrapped an arm around Florence’s shoulder protectively.
“We know it isn’t legal. But it is to us,” Florence said, leaning against Edie.
Kit pulled a slow but proud smile that they would include her in their news.
“When did you get married?” she asked.
“October fourth, it’ll be twenty-eight years,” Florence replied.
“Wow, twenty-eight years. That’s wonderful.”
“It would have been thirty years, but she turned me down the first four times I asked,” Edie said, smiling down at her. Florence blushed and giggled.
“She just wouldn’t take no for an answer. She kept asking me until she wore me down.” Florence brushed a stray leaf from Edie’s jacket. “Way out here, no one cares. We don’t bother anyone, and they don’t bother us. We go about our business, raising pigs and chickens. We pay our bills, don’t break the law, and they leave us alone.”
“Thank you. I’m honored that you told me,” Kit said.
“Then you don’t mind?”
Kit smiled at Florence then hugged her warmly.
“Not in the least. If you ever come to Alderbrook, look me up. I’ll show you some big airplanes.”
“We don’t get very far from home. The animals won’t feed themselves,” Edie said. “But thank you, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you for helping me with the airplane. I couldn’t have turned it by myself.” Kit held back, not sure how Edie would accept a hug.
“Do you need us to help with anything else?”
“Actually, if you would sit in the cockpit and adjust the throttle when I spin the prop, it would be very helpful. Otherwise, I’ll be chasing the plane across the field. There are no brakes, and I don’t have anything to tie it down.”
“Why don’t you sit in the cockpit and I’ll spin the prop?” Edie said.
“It’s too dangerous. I can’t ask you to do that. Once the engine catches, that propeller has quite a kick. It’ll slice your arm off.”
“I don’t plan on putting me arm in the way. Besides, when would I ever get to say I started an airplane for the RAF?” A twinkle came to Edie’s eye. “It looks like the fog is moving out. You better get going if you want to get back before dark.”
Kit scanned the field for debris then spun the propeller to prime the starter before showing Edie what to do. Like a kid with a new toy, Edie watched and listened intently at the prospect of actually starting the Moth. Kit climbed on the wing and checked the controls. She reached in the cockpit and pulled out her parachute, ready to strap it on for her flight home. Florence was watching her every move, fascinated by the goings on. Kit hesitated a moment then jumped down from the wing. She ran over to Florence and pressed the parachute against her chest.
“An anniversary present,” Kit said then kissed Florence’s cheek.
“Oh, Lieutenant,” Florence stammered, suddenly speechless.
“Great for knickers,” she said, winking at her.
“Thank you,” Florence whispered, barely able to talk. She looked over at Edie, tears filling her eyes as she hugged the parachute pack.
“Don’t you need that, Lieutenant?” Edie asked with concern.
“I can get another one.”
“How about this flight?”
“I’ll keep it low and slow.” She grinned.
“We don’t want you to get hurt,” Edie said, her gruff exterior giving way to her tender side.
“I’ll be fine.”
“You take care of yourself, Lieutenant,” Florence said, stroking her precious silk parachute. “Come visit us again.”
“I’d like that.”
“Next time Florence will cook you some bacon and eggs, fresh from our farm,” Edie said proudly. Kit went to shake Edie’s hand but reached up and gave the big woman a hug instead. Edie blushed but seemed happy to accept it.
“Stand back, Florence,” Kit said as she climbed in the cockpit and strapped herself in. “Okay, Edie. Contact.”
Edie gave the prop a spin, sending a plume of smoke belching out the side of the engine. She spun it again. This time it caught, whipping the propeller and chugging into action. She went to stand by Florence, both of them squinting at the cloud of dust the propeller raised. Kit saluted and nudged the throttle forward, starting the Moth across the field. She bounced along the field and eased into the sky as Edie and Florence watched and waved. She rocked her wings and waved before banking to the east and the trip home.